


song of the open road.

by absolut_svensk



Series: odds and ends. [1]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absolut_svensk/pseuds/absolut_svensk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his head, the image he’s crafted of California is one of blue skies and clean air and palm trees and pretty girls in skimpy bikinis at the beach--a sacred land, one that holds the promise of salvation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	song of the open road.

**Author's Note:**

> The companion music to this is youtube user karverlb 's acoustic cover of Insomnium's 'In the Groves of Death.'
> 
> The poetry at the beginning of this work is an excerpt from Walt Whitman's 'Song of the Open Road.'

_Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,_

 

_Healthy, free, the world before me,_

_The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose._

_Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,_

_Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,_

_Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,_

_Strong and content I travel the open road._

_ _

**Thursday, 3:45 PM.**

**August, 1999.**

**Somewhere along I-40W, US.**  

They’ve packed all they own and turned their backs on Florida, on its hot, humid hell, have left the land of swamps and mosquitos and alligators in search of greener pastures.

(Or, as it were, smoggy skies and the promise of maybe, just maybe, _Making It_.)

It’s nearly three thousand miles one way, a distance that Skwisgaar cannot fathom--Americans think two hundred years is a long time; Europeans think two hundred miles is a long drive, he so graciously reminded them as he loaded the last of his amps into the back and strapped them down. All he knows is that they’ve (somehow, miraculously) packed themselves and all their gear into Pickles’ ’89 Dodge van. It’s a tight squeeze at best, and the air conditioning gave out somewhere near Kansas, making for a truly miserable ride.

But all four wheels are attached, and at least the poor old thing--with Nathan as the helm, Pickles serving as his navigator and right-hand man--is galumphing slowly down cracked and potholed road.

Skwisgaar stares dully out the window for what seems like ages, watching rolling pastures fly by; the heavy cloud cover has parted and rays of sunshine are streaming down through the dark thunderheads, and behind cattle fences, cows graze idly.

(It looks just like something out of a Wyeth painting, soporific and relaxing--and so very different than home....)

\--Skwisgaar wakes up to the jostling of tires over an uneven surface; when he sits and opens tired, reddened eyes, he finds they’ve pulled into a gas station out in the middle of nowhere. Oh, god--what a ridiculous place; it’s every bit the one-horse ‘town’ he’s heard about in spaghetti westerns, with the antique gas pumps that look to be the very same ones they were using at the first advent of the internal combustion engine.

He wrinkles his nose in disgust, sneering disapprovingly, and stretches, moving to open the door and stretch his legs for the first time in so, so many hours. So many miles. Beside him, Toki is deeply asleep, his cheek pressed against the window-glass, snoring quietly. But, predictably, he stirs when Skwisgaar opens the door, blinking unevenly up at him. Skwisgaar snorts, offers him a half-smile.

‘You were sleeping like the dead.’

‘--Where are we?’

The kid’s voice is dry, cracked; he sounds like he’s sorely in need of water. Probably could use something to eat, too--their stomachs are empty as can be, their entire budget dedicated solely to gas.

(Skwisgaar doesn’t know what they’ll do when they get to California. A part of him shudders to think about it, but if he’d heard of the American Dream even during his childhood in Sweden, that must mean it’s still alive enough to get them through, too... right?

Because that’s what it takes. Dedication, a little bit of elbow grease, a willingness to work hard, and some luck.

...Right?) 

Skwisgaar looks around, at the miles of empty road. There is _nothing_ here, nothing save for this gas station. They could die, could get picked to pieces, flesh torn away by vultures, bones bleached by the sun, and nobody would notice....

‘--I don’t know.’ He folds his arms across his chest, all-too conscious of how greasy his hair’s grown, of how there’s the beginnings of stubble on his chin from having not shaved in days. His shirt sticks to his back with sweat, clinging to every single ridge and valley of his ribs, every knob on his vertebrae, and what with the way his pants have cling to his legs, too, he’s ever so glad he made the decision two days ago to ditch his underwear in favor of a bit more air circulation to certain vital regions.

Toki sits slowly, cracks his back, makes a faint sound of pain, and watches as Nathan pulls out a map and attempts to ask for directions from the gas station attendant--a man so old and leathery-skinned he seems ready to crumble to dust at any moment.

(And then he glances up at Skwisgaar, looks ready to speak--but Skwisgaar cuts him off.)

‘I’m going for a cigarette. Don’t--’ he pauses, puffs out his cheeks in half-exasperation, works a cigarette out from the crumpled pack with dirty fingernails. ‘--Don’t... wander off.’

Toki looks wounded, but only for a brief moment. And then he knits his brows together and nods, and the moment passes.

\---- 

He’s found a spot in the shade to relax, chain-smoking idly while Pickles fucks around with the radiator. The little old man, to his credit, was kind enough to give them some extra coolant for the engine--and some extra wiper fluid for the bugs he swore six ways to Sunday they’d soon become well-acquainted with. _Whole way through Arizona_ , he’d promised, nodding gravely, like he was letting them in on a well-guarded secret. _You can’t beat the views--but you can’t beat the bugs either._ And while his anecdotes of bygone days out in the Wild Wild West had enthralled Murderface, Skwisgaar wished no part in the storytelling, striking out on his own to stake out a little stead of his own in hopes of finding an ever-elusive moment of peace.

He finally finds one, back pressed up against the wooden exterior paneling of the shop. And by cigarette number three, he’s finally starting to feel calm, though his head still aches terribly from the heat. There’s almost no point in wishing they could get the show on the road, literally and figuratively, because they have so many, many miles left to go before any of them can rest.

(Still. In his head, the image he’s crafted of California is one of blue skies and clean air and palm trees and pretty girls in skimpy bikinis at the beach--a sacred land, one that holds the promise of salvation. Even one mile westward is a step in the right direction....) 

‘Skwisgaar--?’

He’s not surprised when the sound of Toki’s voice breaks the relative stillness he’d been enjoying, though he’s reluctant to divert his attention from the little coil of smoke curling up from the end of his cigarette. Finally he glances up, squinting in the sun, and finds Toki standing over him. He’s absolutely drenched in sweat, his face twisted like he feels all sorts of awful. 

(Skwisgaar doesn’t blame him; neither of them were built for so inhospitable a clime.)

He narrows his eyes, rubs at the tip of his elegantly-hooked nose with his forefinger. ‘What?’

‘--I’m scared.’

Toki breathes out those words like it’s a sin to have even _thought_ them, let alone given them voice. Skwisgaar’s scowl deepens; the last thing he wanted is to be pestered with the misery of another--he has his own issues to worry about, has his own sufferings upon which to dwell.  

And yet... he can’t dismiss Toki so easily. It’s almost unnerving, the sway this stupid child has over him--a sway Toki himself is probably not aware of in the least. 

‘Why would you be scared?’ He doesn’t _mean_ to move over to make room for Toki, he just sort of... does. The pavement on the stoop, at least, is mercifully cool, and he knows Toki will appreciate the sight of ants trooping up and down the wall; childish, mundane things have always fascinated him so.

‘What if we don’t make it? What if--’ Toki lowers his voice to a terrified whisper, ‘--everything falls apart?’

Questioning Nathan’s motives and decisions is quite a salient difference from his prior passiveness and complacency, and it makes Skwisgaar’s eyes widen briefly--though if there’s a look of shock on his face, it’s short-lived. 

‘Oh, Toki.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s going to be fine.’ 

Toki looks skeptical, and that ignites deep within Skwisgaar a rather odd sort of fire--like he needs to defend their purpose.

(Like if he can convince Toki, he can convince himself, too.)

‘I’m the best guitarist in the world.’ He puffs out his chest a little as he says it, giving Toki a proud, pompous grin. ‘And you’re... well. You’re getting better--! Sort of, at least.’

There’s a pause, and he scrunches his nose up, deep in thought, well-aware of Toki’s gaze resting heavily on him. God, his eyes are so big and dumb and soulful; it makes Skwisgaar equal parts angry with him--and angry on his behalf.

(The latter is a much harder sentiment to place.) 

Finally, Skwisgaar turns back to him with a shrug.

‘Look at it this way, Tokes.’ (Toki practically snaps to attention at the nickname.) ‘If you don’t try for something, you’ll never know if you can succeed at it. And I don’t know about you, but if I’m going to starve to death or live as a pauper, I’d rather live somewhere with white-sand beaches and a turquoise ocean. And at the very least--’ he chuckles morbidly, ‘--there’s less humidity and the roaches are smaller.’

Toki laughs nervously; the sound is harsh and insincere, more like a cough than real laughter. Skwisgaar, not sure of what else to do, or how else to provide comfort short of offering Toki a shoulder to lean on--which he is not of a mind to do--instead offers him his cigarette. 

Toki’s never smoked before. Today, he accepts. Skwisgaar ignores how he coughs after every puff, how his eyes water, how his nose runs. And when Nathan calls them back over to the newly-fixed van, Skwisgaar turns a blind eye to how vindictively the cigarette is stamped out.

(He half-wonders if that’s supposed to be a symbolic gesture, too.)

\---- 

He wakes in the dead of night to the sound of cheering; upon cracking one eye open and squinting through the windshield, he can see a sign, dimly illuminated by the van's headlights:  


** _Welcome to California_ **

** _San Bernadino County Line_ **

‘...We fucking did it.’

Nathan’s deep growl punctuates the stillness inside the van; he speaks aloud for all of them, of that Skwisgaar is certain. They have many miles left to go, yet, before making it to their destination--and even then, the journey will have only just begun.

Somehow, though, Skwisgaar feels far more ready for it than ever before. 

He smiles, then glances over at Toki. It’s hard to make out the kid’s face in the darkness, but he thinks he sees a smile. 

A moment later, he feels callused fingertips brushing against the back of his hand. He shoots Toki a confused look, meets wide, pale eyes, a searching stare, an unreadable smile of Toki’s own.

(Here, in the dark, no one can see. For now, they can share this little secret, can keep it between the two of them, never to speak of again.) 

Skwisgaar takes his hand.


End file.
